The Hessian
by auberjeanne
Summary: Also a little prose again. The person speaking is also unknown, just like in my other story. It was actually based on the FILM sleepy hollow, but they only had the book, which I haven't read...


The wind sang through the branches of the trees, which were touched by the bitter fingers of autumn. The golden sun sank to the ground, splashing the sky with bright streaks of pink and purple. I herded the rest of my flock of sheep into their pens to retire for the night, and so that I could make my way home for my tea. It had been a hard days work today, so I was eager for my food.

I scuttled home swiftly, not keen to stay outdoors after sundown. There had been many whispers of things, supernatural things, happening in the past few weeks. I'm sure they mean nothing, just bursts of hot air from mouths that are hungry for gossip. But still, when everyone is talking about it, it's hard not to be a little uneasy about the subject.

They had even gone to the extent of bringing a man all the way from Connecticut to help the situation - Ichabod Crane his name is. Our town always seem to get het up about anything these days, and will go to any extent to get someone else to prove it that it isn't problematic. I think Ichabod will be disappointed to find that there can be _nothing_ wrong with this village.

Nothing.

But the hairs on my neck tell me otherwise…

The sun was gone now, devoured by the oncoming night sky, but it was still a while until I reached home. Even though all natural light had dissipated around me, the street lamps gave an apt substitute; orange rays that smothered objects all around in a soft, pastel light that was kind on the eyes. I kept my head down and walked on, but unable to see past my feet I bumped straight into someone walking in the opposite direction.

A nervous voice spoke out 'I'm so sorry Miss, I didn't mean to knock into you.' I looked up into the face of Ichabod Crane, the inspector from Connecticut. His mid length hair framed his neat, defined features quite flatteringly in the orange glow. In his right arm he carried a brief case, with strange tools, quirky mechanisms, all of which he invented himself. 'Are you lost?' he said, 'I wouldn't want a young girl like you to be out so late at night.'

'Oh no, I'm fine thank you.' I replied. 'It's been a long day at work.'

'Well, if you say so. I bid you good night.' He went to walk on, but I stopped him just before he left.

'Wait, Mr. Crane!' I called after him. 'I just want to ask, have you gotten any further with your investigation on this… Headless Horseman?'

'Not quite as of yet, I have yet to see the felon with my own eyes. No doubt that if these tales are true, I shall have a visit off him soon…' He paused, letting the information he disclosed sink into my head. That he could strike. Anywhere. Anytime. Any head.

'Oh well I do hope you progress in this investigation, for good news or bad news, and get this mess cleared up.'

'I agree, Miss. I hope we get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.'

And with that he bowed, and I curtseyed in response, before letting each other go and do what business that had to be done. He was a very anxious man, always on the edge, and very jumpy at the minor things, such as an innocent spider. But with dead men riding horses and slicing one's head from it's body, it is easy to be a little frightened. I looked down to my feet and kept on walking.

I had made it down the lane, and my home was in sight. We must have had visitors, for someone's horse was standing outside the doorway, so obediently as it did not need to be tied up. But it seemed far too quiet for there to be visitors. And far to cold. My arms began to get covered in little goose bumps from the chilled winds, and I made my way inside.

I got to the door, and heard an odd clanking of metal upon wood. I peered into the window, only in time to see my mother cowering under the table, and my father fighting the visitor, who must be an intruder and the owner of this horse. The zing of metal leaving it's casing sent shivers down my spine, as this man advanced on my father, who's face was white as porcelain, and as shatter able. He brought the sword down on my father, too quick for anyone's reactions, slicing through his flesh like it was butter. Bursts of blood split everywhere, staining the flimsy wooden floorboards, the mantelpiece, pouring heavily from my father's neck.

I tried not to scream. I bit down on my thumbs to stop the noise leaking out of my mouth. I felt sick at these sights, and could feel the remains of lunch trying to force it's way back up my throat.

Next, this man walked over to my mother. She lay trembling on the floor, as he stood over her, overpowering her, lengthening the amount of time she had to be terrified and dreading the moment she had witnessed her faithful husband fall into moments ago. Her hands were pressed together, begging for mercy, praying for a way out. Tears streamed from her delicate blue eyes as a last ticket for survival.

He answered none of her prayers, or responded to any of her begs. He lifted the already bloodied sword. Her body lay slashed, pooling up in blood in seconds before I had even realised she was dead. He was as quick as lightning, and twice as frightening. They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but that is where the two differed.

The man turned around. It was true! This villainous creep was the Hessian Horseman! He replaced his blade and paraded around the house. His neck bore no face.

There was no one to scream to out here, so little point in me doing so.

But I did.

And that's when he noticed me.

He swung his sword out of it's sheath again, the red patches adding some sort of authenticity to the murder scene, hacked the door down, and with his boots, adorned with spurs, he walked in my direction. I covered my mouth and back away, preparing for my final gasps of air as he brutally dealt with me just like he did my family.

Which he didn't.

He must have startled at something, for he slammed his sword back in it's casing and mounted his steed (which, it has been said, is the animal equivalent of the devil) that was already rearing when he was on his back and galloped off into the mist.

I heard a second pair of horse hooves, not going at quite the pace as the Horseman, but hoping it wasn't another Hessian to finish the job. My heart was pounding, but it was no other than Ichabod Crane, whom I bumped into earlier. His breath was short and heavy, and he dismounted with speed. He took one look in the house, and reeled back in disgust, and looked at me with eyes of pity.

I could see from his expression that he was topped with despair. From this nineteen year old's expression, crying in front of him, he could tell he had come too late.


End file.
